Birlikte
by bittergrapes
Summary: John receives the Victoria Cross; Sherlock realizes their relationship isn't all about him. ftm!Sherlock/bisexual!John, set after 'Beyond' in the Translock universe. Fluffy and sweet; rated for transphobic, homophobic, and biphobic slurs.


**Birlikte**

_**Birlikte (prep.) – Turkish for 'Together'.**_

John Watson, M.D., was vaguely aware of a tickling sensation on his stomach as his dreams were batted away by the harshness of the morning sun. Opening his eyes and swallowing to wash down the cottony feel of his mouth, he sat up slightly to see a mess of curls resting on his abdomen. The owner of the disheveled mop looked up, locking his quartz eyes with his partner, before returning his head to its former position, sighing contently.

"Good morning, then," John groaned, carefully repositioning Sherlock as he sat up to stretch. "And what exactly are you doing?"

"Listening to your lower intestine digesting last night's post-coital snack," Sherlock responded simply, springing up and running a hand distractedly through his black mess of hair.

John smiled, rolling his eyes at that, before pulling his husband close to kiss him. "How did I know it would be something unsettling? Sorry about the morning mouth."

"I don't mind," Holmes responded.

"Good, because I wouldn't care if you did," John chuckled, brushing his finger over the curve of Sherlock's chin. "Anyway, since that big brain of yours has been pressing on my bladder, if you'll excuse me. . ."

"Of course, of course," the detective moved out of the way, his hand running across the small of John's back as he did so. "I'll start the coffee. We can read the last three weeks' mail over breakfast."

"Thank you; don't worry about the bed. I'll make it."

"Love those hospital corners," Sherlock purred, kissing the doctor before swatting him off toward the bathroom.

The luggage from their honeymoon was still piled in the middle of the living room floor, a jumble of Sherlock's blue plaid matched luggage (a gift from Mycroft) and John's military duffle bags. Sherlock's mind idly noted the airport tags (Kerry, Ireland to London, England) before disregarding the extraneous information and returning to the matter of hand: getting John's morning coffee order just so. John always took his with one cream and two sugars, while Sherlock preferred his black with as much sugar as he could manage to choke down.

Scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, and coffee were on the cluttered kitchen table by the time John ambled down the hallway, tousling his wet hair and drawing his shabby dressing gown closer to his frame. Sherlock barely looked up to acknowledge his partner as the doctor sat down, busy reading a letter from the Swedish monarchy regarding a lost pureblood Andalusian racehorse.

"Thanks for breakfast, Sherlock," John commented as he picked up a stack of mail and began to flip through it. "Anything interesting so far?"

"A few. I've got three new cases to pursue, apparently."

"Good. Keep you out of trouble," the doctor smiled fondly. As he reached for his nearly-empty coffee, a thick letter on royal stationary fell out of the stack and he picked it up curiously, opening it and looking it over as he took a sip.

The coffee cup – fortunately empty of its contents now – fell with a clang onto the table and John stared at the letter uncomprehendingly, his eyes unfocused.

Sherlock looked up from his letter, catching the dazed look on his husband's face. "John? John, what is it?"

"I. . ."

"Yes?"

"Oh my god."

"_John_. What _is_ it?"

The ex-soldier's voice sounded tinny and weak as he replied, "I'm getting a Victoria Cross. This is my summons to the ceremony."

"A . . . what? Victoria Cross?" Sherlock tilted his head, obviously confused.

"It's the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a member of the military, given out only for extraordinary acts of bravery and valor." John's face, drained of blood, looked eerie even in the warm morning light, and he spoke slowly, as if struggling to form the words.

"Right, interesting. Congratulations." Taking a sip of his coffee, Sherlock returned to his letter.

Regaining his composure, John breathed deeply as he finished reading the summons. "Are you going to go with me, then?"

"Sounds boring. Waste of a perfectly good night. Can't you just have them mail it to you?"

"I . . . _what?_ Boring? Sherlock, this is one of the greatest honors that military personnel can ever receive. It comes even before knighthood in precedence, and it supersedes any and all other honors in the Commonwealth. And you tell me that it's a _waste of a good night_?"

"I believe that's what I said," Sherlock responded calmly, folding down his letter to stare at his husband across the table. "Boring, useless ceremonial function, one of the only things our royal family is good for. We could be out chasing criminals and instead we'll be dressed up like corpses, talking to boring aristocrats and being _breathed on_ by some of the most cold-hearted and self-important assassins on the planet. That sounds like an absolute waste of my time. You should save us both the misery and just have it mailed to the flat."

John's mouth hardened into a tight line, and his right eye twitched. "I'd prefer to go to the ceremony," he murmured coldly.

"Then you may go. I won't stop you."

"I want you to come along. It's important to me, Sherlock."

"Good, so people can stare at us as if we're a new species of animal, look at me as if I'm a freak!"

"You know, this relationship is not all about you. Sometimes I need things from you, too, things to show me that you care about me."

"I took you on a honeymoon to Kerry County. I don't even like Ireland."

"Not that. I don't mean material things, Sherlock, I mean actual _effort_. I've done everything I can for you: I've always been there when you needed me, I've covered for you, I've even _killed_ men for you. But yet you can't take one night out of your life to support me in something that's important to me? I did something to deserve this award, I worked my ass off and nearly died and finally something _good_ is coming of that for me. Can't you just give me this one thing?" John's voice had taken on a pleading edge, his hand tightly gripping the edge of the coffee table.

Holmes rolled his eyes, casually drinking the last of his coffee. "You could have picked a better one thing."

"That's _it._" The letter landed back on the table with a forceful bang, one that shook the dishes softly. "I'll be up in my study."

His steps reverberated throughout the flat, and Sherlock listened to them fade away as he strode over to his typical seat to pick up his violin. Usually, soothing music would quickly lure John back downstairs, reminding him of Sherlock's positive qualities and helping him to look past whatever disagreement had lead to the situation. For over an hour the violin hummed with some of John's favorite classical pieces; he even threw in a version of Cee Lo Green's "Forget You," knowing how much his partner liked that particular song. But it seemed that Sherlock's snub was too great to be healed by music alone, and gradually the bow stopped singing, leaving the flat in a sticky silence.

"Hmm. It must have actually been of importance, then," Sherlock murmured, ambling over to the kitchen table where their breakfast plates and stacks of mail were still positioned exactly as they had been when John stormed out of the room. Picking up the letter, he scanned it quickly before finding the RSVP for the event. In his careful, elegant scrawl, he wrote out "_John H. Watson, M.D., and guest_", before filling out the return envelope and setting it aside to post later.

"Now, what else, what else." His laptop, set beside his chair as usual, whirred as he turned it on, quickly typing in his search terms and waiting impatiently for the reply:

_Gestures of affection when husband receives award_

10,900,000 results appeared in 0.3 seconds: disregarding the first three as unimportant, he clicked on the fourth link and began to read. Having devoured that article, he moved on to the sixth, jotting quick notes in his notebook as his eyes flicked across the page. A small smile graced his features as he quickly opened several other pages, crossing off each task as it was completed.

An hour later, when John finally descended the stair, Sherlock had put away his laptop and was quietly reading one of his encyclopedias. Seeing the army doctor, he set the book aside, going to his partner.

"I'm sorry, John," he intoned softly, resting a hand on the shorter man's forearm. "I didn't realize."

John batted him away, picking up his RAMC mug and pouring cold coffee in its depths, shuffling toward the microwave.

"I mean it."

"I'm sure you do, in your own way. But I'm angry right now, and I don't want to hear it. I just want a cup of coffee and to go back upstairs in peace," Watson shot back, slamming the microwave door a little harder than necessary.

Stepping back, Sherlock's lip trembled, and he bit it to keep John from noticing. "I . . . alright. Alright, John. That's . . . fine." He watched his husband return back upstairs, being sure he was sequestered away in his study before returning to his plans.

The afternoon of the ceremony, John took off early from work, dashing to the drycleaner's and picking up his uniform before returning home to prepare. His heart was already pounding in his chest, beating out a war cadence and making him feel dizzy and light-headed. Paying the cabbie, he stumbled his way up to the flat, crashing up the stairs to find the front room deserted, Sherlock's violin locked away in its case and the various papers usually littering the floor stacked in neat piles.

"Huh," the doctor hummed, turning around in the slow circle to survey the bizarre tidiness of the room. "Sherlock must have upped his allergy medication this morning. Never gets like that unless he's chemically imbalanced."

Catching a bright spark of color in the kitchen, John whirled around to face the cleared kitchen table. Two glasses of port in Sherlock's heirloom glasses sat opposite each other, their surface rippling slightly with John's footsteps as he walked into the room. Between the glasses stood a beautiful glass vase, resplendent in whirls of navy and white, bursting with a bouquet of daffodils and dusky red roses.

The doctor smiled, imagining Sherlock ordering the flowers "just so" from a company, demanding the perfect shades – old gold and dull cherry – to complement the navy vase.

"RAMC colors: very clever, Sherlock," he admitted, taking a sip of the port on his way to the bathroom, still carrying the plastic-wrapped uniform. The man in question was pacing the hallway, and nearly ran into his husband as he walked toward the living room.

"Sherlock! Uh, thank you for the flowers? That was quite nice of you."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock responded, patting John awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Listen . . ." John began, shifting as he switched the dry cleaning from his left to right shoulder. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. I know you're not really one for this kind of thing, and that's fine, I guess. It's alright, really."

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're worried that your Army friends will say something rude about the fact that you're married to a man, and that it will make you uncomfortable. If I don't go, you can lie or divert the conversation and hence not diminish their opinion of you."

"That's part of it, yeah."

The detective peered at him again, looking closer. "But you're also worried that I will embarrass you by being rude to your friends or a general nuisance."

John's mouth twitched slightly, and he winced in affirmation. "That's a bit of it too."

Holmes took him by the shoulders, resting their foreheads together as was their custom, and kissed him lightly on the nose. "John, I promise you that I will be on my best behavior tonight. I won't do anything to diminish your spotlight and ruin your night. I see now how important this is to you – I was wrong to make it seem otherwise. This is a day for you, and I respect that."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Go get ready, soldier," the detective replied softly, pressing his lips to John's weathered forehead.

Stepping out of the bathroom in his bathrobe, still toweling off his hair, the doctor padded to the front room to grab his shoes. As he entered the kitchen, he immediately stopped, staring at Sherlock sitting in his chair. Nearly dropping his towel on the floor, he took a deep breath and let it out with a shuddery smile.

The consulting detective was wearing a perfectly tailored navy blue suit – the exact same shade as his uniform – with an old gold bow tie and a dull cherry carnation pinned to his lapel. His shoes, also navy, had been buffed to an incredible gleam, and his hair was tamed into an immaculate tangle of curls. He had been busily scrolling through his Blackberry, but at his partner's entrance, Sherlock looked up questioningly.

"John?"

"Sherlock, you look . . . you look amazing."

"Really?" His eyes lit up, just slightly, before he resumed his typical look of detachment.

"Yes. And thank you for actually putting forth the effort . . . I didn't expect it at all. Down to the bow tie," he replied affectionately. "It does mean a lot."

"Well. I wouldn't make this effort for anyone else."

"Oh?"

Sherlock smiled. "They wouldn't be worth it."

John felt all of his skin alight with a blush, all the way down to his toes. "Well, uh. I'm going to go get dressed now. Uh."

"Please do. As much as I like to see you in just a bathrobe, I doubt the Queen would approve."

"You _dog_."

The detective's face split with another grin, and he rolled his eyes, sweeping his hand dramatically to shoo John before turning back to his phone.

By the time he was properly clothed in his uniform, Sherlock was pacing the landing, huffing and checking his phone occasionally. As soon as he emerged from the bedroom, Sherlock was already dashing down the stairs, and John followed obediently, checking that he had his ID and the invitations in his pocket. Beads of sweat were already trailing down into the collar of his starch-stiff parade dress, and he looked down to see his hands shaking tremulously. "Great," he muttered. "Probably fall flat on my face right in front of Prince William." Chuckling at the thought, he grabbed the banister a little tighter and sped down after his husband.

A sparkling black limousine was waiting in front of 221B with Sherlock standing at the back door like an especially ceremonial doorman. As John fumbled with his keys to lock up the flat, the detective flicked the back door open and bowed deeply at the waist, remaining completely still until his partner was comfortably seated inside, before ducking in himself and slamming shut the door. John grinned a little, shooting Sherlock an amused look.

"Should make you wait on me hand and foot more often."

"You're lucky I even take out the trash on occasion – don't get used to it."

"I won't, no worries. It's a little weird, to be honest, seeing you act all . . . subservient."

Sherlock's face fell, and he regarded John anxiously. "Am I – am I not doing this properly? This is what the dating columns said was appropriate. Gentlemanly behavior? Granted, it was mostly in regards to heterosexual relationships, but I imagined that on such an important occasion similar rules would-"

The detective was interrupted by John laughing, doubling over with tears in his eyes, grasping at Sherlock's leg for support and nearly crashing against him when the limo took a particularly sharp turn, heading toward Buckingham Palace.

"Is it that atrocious?"

"No! No, oh god no, Sherlock. Just . . . the mental image of you pouring over dating columns to figure this out, it's . . . it's just very, very funny to me."

". . . Why?"

"Because you're a _detective_! You're more comfortable analyzing blood spatter than taking me out on a date! And the thought of you reading Cosmopolitan or somesuch to decide how to plan this is just . . . a bit much, oh god." John wiped the tears from his face, wrapping an arm around his husband and pulling him close. "I'm not laughing at you, or this. I appreciate it. Just sometimes the thought of you being so out of your depth on something like this is . . . extremely amusing."

Sherlock smiled, leaning into the embrace. "I imagine it would be so, yes."

"And I do appreciate it. Very much."

"Thank you, John. I learned some sex tips during my investigation, as well. I'm sure we could find several translatable to our own practice."

"Makeup advice, too? Best jeans for my body type?" John felt another wave of hysterics coming on, and he clutched his partner's thigh, turning his head to rest on Sherlock's lapel.

"The perfect accessories for any summer bash," he replied in his rich bass, his hand immersing itself in John's soft hair. They both broke down at that, holding each other as they laughed.

"God, I love you."

"I love you too."

They arrived at the ceremony shortly before its beginning, John taking his place of honor and Sherlock going to their seats. The detective watched raptly as John received his medal from a member of the royal family (somewhere in his mind he knew he should know their names, but couldn't bring himself to care), and immediately squeezed his hands when he returned to sit next to him, leaning in to whisper, "I'm proud of you," in his partner's ear. John flushed a deep red with pleasure, nervously touching the new cross on his uniform. The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur for both of them, the couple too busy concentrating on their intertwined hands to care about much else.

At the reception, John joined a circle of his medic colleagues, who offered him a hearty round of applause and countless pats on the back, which caused him to wince as they jarred his bad shoulder. Sherlock, recognizing his presence was unnecessary, quietly slipped off to fetch them both flutes of champagne; John's friends quickly absorbed the empty spot, hastening to fill the air with their congratulations and Army-related chatter.

John's superior, a bristling colonial named Jack Scott, pointed at his ring finger with a smirk. "Who's the lucky lady, John? You never mentioned a wedding."

The doctor paled, offering a half-hearted smile. "Well, uh, it was a quiet affair. Just a few family members. Had it done at the registrar's office, nothing special."

"Oh yeah? Most brides want the whole shebang: you lucked out with a frugal one."

"Well, we blew most of the money on a three-week honeymoon to Kerry County in Ireland."

"She have family there?"

John coughed. "He, actually."

The flow of conversation stopped immediately, all the men turning to him. Jack stared at him intently. ". . . _He_, did you say?"

"Uh, yeah. He."

The group broke out in nervous laughter, and John shifted uncomfortably.

"Never knew you were bent," Jack said coldly. "Always talked about your conquests when we were in Afghanistan. The way you talked, woulda thought you'd fucked your way all the way up to Shetland."

"Maybe not all of them were women," John replied, his voice quiet.

A nervous silence descended among the circle, several men backing away to join other conversations. Jack stared at John, his eyes narrowed to pin pricks in the elegant light of the hall.

"So who is the fag, then?"

John straightened up, his jaw set. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective: only one in the world, in fact. And he could tell you everything about yourself that you'd rather not hear – or would rather not have your wife hear."

"I heard he was one of them transsexuals," one of the other men interrupted. "Friend in the police force. Apparently she's a total pain in the ass."

"_HE,_" John growled, his hands clenching at his sides.

Jack laughed easily then, downing his glass of champagne and setting it back on a passing server's tray. "So _that's_ why you're with a tranny, John, and why you say you're bisexual. You look like a gay couple and fuck like a straight one."

The blood rushed to John's face, tinging his cheeks a furious red, and his hands curled into fists, ready to punch his former superior square in the jaw, when he heard rather than felt the soft brush of a perfectly tailored suit against his shoulder. A flute of champagne was suddenly thrust into his hand, and looking up, he found himself staring into the comforting face of his husband.

"Colonel Jack Scott, M.D. 20 years in service, recently toured both Afghanistan and Iraq. Recipient of the George Cross in 2004. Congratulations!"

"Who are you?" Jack asked, scowling.

"I," Sherlock responded pleasantly, "am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. And you've been insulting my husband."

"I-"

"Listen carefully, Colonel. I hate to repeat myself. The rest of you as well," the detective added, turning to look at the blanched faces surrounding him. "John's bravery and heroism is not in the least impacted by his sexual orientation, and the fact that he is so open-minded despite spending the majority of his adulthood in a cesspool of bigotry and heterosexism speaks volumes about his character.

"This man," he said grandly, grasping the hand of his husband, "dragged five men out of the line of fire during an especially intense firefight in Kabul, saving all five of them. He continued to work on a man's leg injury even after being shot through the shoulder, and he refused medical attention for himself until he knew that his unit was safe. He passed out from blood loss during the helicopter ride to the hospital. The first thing he asked upon awakening was if he'd saved the private he had been attending to. No thought for his injuries, no consideration for his own safety, no matter the cost to himself.

"I've seen this with my own eyes, and I can tell you that if ever a hero walked the earth, it's this man: John Watson, my best friend and partner. And _none_ of that is related to who he sleeps with at night. You should be ashamed. It's no wonder he's receiving the Victoria Cross instead of yourselves."

Another awkward silence descended on the small circle of military personnel, John watching as they muttered among themselves. One by one, they shook John's hand and dispersed, leaving the doctor alone with his detective.

"How did you know all of that about the . . . the, uh?" John asked, absentmindedly patting his Victoria Cross.

Sherlock nodded gently at him. "My research was not all about hot bow tie styles of 2011, John."

"Well. Thank you for, the. You know."

"Husbands defend each other."

John reached for his hand, squeezing it gratefully. "I know."

Just then, Sherlock's phone chirped, signaling a text. He pulled it out of his suit coat, his eyes darting over the screen before a vicious grin overtook his face. "We have a case!" He looked up and, as if remembering where they were, tucked his phone back in his pocket, glancing anxiously at John. "We don't have to go to it right away – this is your night, we don't have to-"

"_Sherlock._ Are you serious?" John rolled his eyes, unclasping his bar and cross, handing them to Sherlock. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."

The detective nodded, pulling the box for John's medals out of his pocket and tucking them carefully inside before returning the box to its position.

"Ready, then?"

"Always."

The two linked hands and dashed through the great hall, ducking past servers and dignitaries alike before bursting out into the great lawn. Sherlock laughed giddily as they jumped over shrubbery, surely trampling the Queen's beautiful hedges and muddying their fancy dress. But it didn't matter. Being in love and alive and on a case rendered many things irrelevant.


End file.
